


rainy days

by Lua



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Grieving Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Beta Read, Some comfort, Steter Secret Santa 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 20:26:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17087165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lua/pseuds/Lua
Summary: Stiles is free-falling through grief, but Peter is there to catch him."Seasons don't fear the reaperNor do the wind, the sun or the rain... we can be like they are (come on, baby)"(don't fear) the reaper - blue öyster cult





	rainy days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InnerCinema](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerCinema/gifts).



> i hope you have a wonderful end of the year!

When his mother died, it rained for a month. Stiles remembered it because it felt like the weather agreed with him. Later in life, he learned that was called a pathetic fallacy. Even later in life, he learned that literary fallacies could be damned because the weather did agree with him.

Well, more or less.

When his father died, it rained, too. But this time, the weather was angry.  Stiles powered through it and let the skies rage and tantrum for him. There was hail. There were storms and winds and lightning. There were torn trees and fences; there was damage.

Scott was the first to stop by and to express how very sorry he was Stiles’ father got caught in all this. Stiles didn’t ask him to leave, but he didn’t ask him to stay either. The night before the funeral, the forecast couldn’t explain the drop in temperature and in the morning, it felt like winter.

“Winter has come,” Peter said in the morning when Stiles woke up. He was still in bed, but the werewolf was sitting next to him and watching the news in a low volume that annoyed Stiles immediately.  “I didn’t want to wake you,” Peter explained.

Stiles stared at the ceiling and mentally prepared himself for the day.

“Are you really not coming?” he asked Peter.

“Do you want me to?”

Stiles considered it for a moment and then looked at the other man. This wasn’t Peter’s loss to mourn. It shouldn’t have been Stiles’ either, but nothing in this was fair. Stiles ground his teeth and got up.

“I have done it before,” he said and marched out of the room.

Stiles didn’t cry. He felt absent from his own body and he had the actual experience of what that would be like to compare. He sorted the documents that needed sorting. He hired people to put together a beautiful veiling and funeral. He talked to the few cops that knew his father and survived and still lived in Beacon Hills. He did not cry.

And outside, it stormed.

The pack – minus Peter – was present at the funeral. Lydia squeezed Stiles’ hand and didn’t say anything. Malia hugged him tightly and for a long time before Lydia tugged on her jacket so she would let go.

The wind howled at the cemetery and it was sad. Stiles stood there, for a long time, with his eyes closed and the wind making his scarf wave around, and, before he was ready to say goodbye and leave, he let out a sigh. It felt like the first breath after drowning and the cold wind seemed to calm down just long enough for Stiles to get home.

The rain got lighter. The tightness on Stiles’ chest started to undo itself and for a moment in the cart – Peter’s car – he thought he would puke.  In the end, he didn’t puke and he didn’t cry and he didn’t go home.

Stiles drove to his father’s house, his own house that he started thinking of as his old place.  The house was full of memories and things that needed to be packed away and put into boxes and stored somewhere. When he got there, he closed the door and stood in the hallway for some time. The house was dark and the only light came from the lightning outside. It wasn’t raining, but the light and sounds were angry. The wind rattled the door, more violent than it had been before. Stiles walked to the kitchen, still in the dark. He didn’t want to look at those things or think about them or think about his father or grieve. It was wrong and because it was wrong he felt pissed off. There was rage and hurt building up under his skin and the apathy was temporary, he knew.

He could see the bright supernatural blue of Peter’s eyes and make out the contours of his body, leaning against the counter and waiting for him to come back here. Stiles would have been amused by the drama if he wasn’t so damn pissed.

“You missed the funeral,” he told the werewolf in his kitchen the obvious.

“I’m more worried about you than about Noah’s resting place,” Peter said and pushed himself away from the counter. “He never liked me.”

“No one likes you,” Stiles said and hit the light switches. The light flickered a few times before it stayed on. Peter watched it through the corner of his eyes and Stiles watched Peter.

“You like me,” Peter said and walked to Stiles, wrapping his arms around him.

They stayed like that, in silence, until Stiles started to feel trapped. He pushed Peter away and Peter did step back.

“I still have a lot to do,” Stiles told him, looking away.

The rain started again outside. It hit the windows with heavy loud drops.

Peter sighed.

“It’s been a week.” Stiles gave him a chilling glare. “You can’t avoid that pain forever, Stiles.”

“No, I should hunt the people involved down and make sure they paid tenfold.”

“We can do that, my love,” Peter said, careful as he moved closer. Lightning fell close enough that it illuminated the house and the thunder that followed made the windows rattle. “You need to feel the loss first. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Try me.”

“Stiles.”

“Fucking try me, Peter,” Stiles turned his back to the werewolf and breathed his rage out into the wind.

Suddenly Peter was behind him and wrapped his arms around Stiles, forcing his arms to stay by his sides as if keeping him still would calm down the weather.

“It hurts, I know.” Stiles stayed silent but the lightning struck again. Peter turned him around so they could face each other. “I know what’s like to lose your family, Stiles,” Peter said softly.

“You didn’t lose everyone,” he told Peter, full of bitterness and poison, knowing full well that was playing low.

Peter showed his teeth in a muted growl that came naturally to him. They stared at each other, both angry for different reasons. Stiles pressed his lips together in a thin line, looking away first; Peter’s glare could be very disturbing.

“Watch it,” Peter warned him.

“I’m allowed to be angry,” Stiles hissed and the thunder that followed was louder than it was its business.

“Yes, but it has to be you,” Peter insisted, moving close again. At that moment, everything Peter did was annoying.

“This is me!”

The rain sounded stronger and the wind sounded angrier. Both sounded capable of collapse the roof over their heads if given enough time.

Peter held Stiles’ face between his hands and looked into his eyes with his wolf eyes. Stiles read somewhere that a wolf’s gaze was almost hypnotic, he didn’t remember the details, but he was reminded of it because Peter’s eyes felt like that. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t push him away, couldn’t scream and hit him and break things or anything he wanted.

“I will hunt them down and bring you their hearts and you will never have to become a storm again,” Peter told him and Stiles believed him. He breathed out and closed his eyes.

The wind stopped howling and trying to unhinge the doors and windows.

“I’ll never lose you,” Stiles declared, but the doubt in it was clear.

“Not to death, not to the supernatural. You know better, Stiles; you’re a clever man.”

Stiles snorted, still angry but finally feeling like the pain may pass. The raindrops sounded lighter. It wasn’t sunshine – not yet – but it was a beginning. Peter smiled at him.

“You’re such a pain in the ass that not even erasing you from existence is possible.”

 “You and me both,” he pulled Stiles against his chest and rubbed his cheek against his. “You and me both.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!
> 
> magical stiles is pretty hard for me to write, but i got thinking about the sheriff being a good father and how much he would be missed and this came to be.  
> i hope you find it a bit enjoyable.


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